


diving in

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: Philanderer: If a female ally is adjacent, unit deals 2 extra damage and takes 2 less damage during combat.Sylvain and what it means to protect.~~Written forPeculiarity: FE Small Writer Zine.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41
Collections: Peculiarity: FE Small Writer Zine





	diving in

**Garland Moon, 1180**

Today’s outing might be for training, but the hits still hurt when they land.

The poor girl ahead of him, distracted by the flash of Fire to her left, doesn’t see the Knight of Seiros coming for her. But Sylvain does, and luckily, he’s always been good at handling pain, always been ready to take the hits as they come. He’ll take this attack so she doesn’t have to. Maybe even score a date. Ladies _love_ a charming fellow—they adore a dashing hero straight out of fairy tales.

She looks like the type who’d want his Crest. She could probably use a lesson in love.

A few quick steps, a light, twisting hop—he places himself in the knight’s path. Broadsword meets Sylvain’s lance, its force unyielding, and he grunts at the impact. Turns out these Knights, though not Garreg Mach’s best fighters, aren’t anything to sneer at. Thankfully, today’s exercise isn’t much of a challenge for anyone who grew up in Faerghus.

A surprised “oh!” emanates from behind Sylvain as he pushes the Knight away. Another follows when he scores a winning jab against the Knight’s midriff. Sylvain grins and salutes the older soldier as they dutifully bow out for the rest of the exercise.

“Thank you!” soft, sweet, and honeyed—Sylvain turns to the words with a grin and his gaze meets bright, doe eyes of velvetine periwinkle. Satisfaction curls in his gut at the light pink blush dusting over a freckled nose.

“Nah, no need to thank me, it’s what anyone would do.”

The girl blinks. A hand rises to cover her mouth—so practiced, so artfully dainty—the other extending toward him. “You’re hurt!”

Is he? Sylvain’s hand rubs at his cheek, and it leaves behind a stinging sensation as it comes away red. He shrugs, unaffected.

But: “Huh, guess so. Kiss it better for me over dinner tonight, baby?”

The faint flush flowers to luminescent red, and Sylvain’s smile widens in triumph.

**Red Wolf Moon, 1184**

“Fall back! That’s an order!”

Sylvain’s voice is barely audible over the din of metal meeting flesh, metal meeting leather, metal meeting metal. A clap of thunder crashes across the sky, and the poor stallion below him rears back in fright as ozone stains the air.

“Fall back! Now!”

An ambush, a pincer attack, red and black charging in on both sides—Sylvain had walked straight into a trap. The best he can hope for now is to lead his battalion away before they sustain more casualties.

The call echoes through the troops and the Gautier Knights fall into line behind Sylvain, skittish and unwieldy. Sylvain sighs and roughly shoves a heavy, wet hand through his hair. The other hangs at his side, gripping the Lance of Ruin.

Sylvain can make out the faint glint of iron through the rain and darkness. Foreboding slams his already-taut nerves. He hauls on his reins and moves before he can even register the reaction, forcing his paladin to dart out of the way as Sylvain careens toward her.

Come on, come on, _out of the way_ —!

There’s a dull thunk and rippling pain in Sylvain’s left shoulder as the arrow makes contact, punching through a joint in his armor and burying itself deep in his body. He’d protected, instinctively, like he’s trained to do for years, and this is his reward.

No time for self-pity. They have to go. _Now._

“Move it!”

It’s a little hard to focus through the pain, but Sylvain sets his teeth. The wound won’t kill him. He gestures with the Lance of Ruin, its eerie light a beacon to friend and foe alike. It’s too late to worry about that though, and his battalion rides on.

~

Sylvain’s head is foggy as he slowly emerges back into consciousness, like someone took his brain and stuffed it full of heavy, stifling Gautier wool. He blinks against the empty darkness of the tent looming above, and he breaks further into awareness with each painstaking second.

There’s a tightness around his chest that lessens only slightly as he breathes out. Bandages lock his arm and shoulder in place. He’s sure to get an earful later (once from their healer for his recklessness and once more from his father for endangering the family line), but for now, he lets the silence of the night lull him to peace.

It could have been worse. He lost valuable soldiers, _again_ , but it could have been worse. The war, now four years old, has worn on him. Worn on his soldiers, worn on every man and woman and child. Day by day, the casualties drip in, _valiant_ and _noble_ and _true_. Dignified in death, isn’t that what the ballads say?

They must all yield, sooner or later, to the iron fist of Adrestia’s Emperor.

Is he ready to meet Miklan in hell when the time comes? Will Sylvain have fulfilled his duty to king and country? Will he have earned the weight of his Crest in the blood of Imperial lives?

His shoulder will bear the mark of today’s carelessness, a battle scar and battle badge to commemorate another failure as one of Faerghus’s burgeoning crop of knights. A memory embedded for the life of his paladin so that she might die the next time instead.

Down, down, down, they all fall, one by one hacked to shreds by the red wave roaring over Fódlan.

But maybe it’s not all in vain. Sparing her today gives her one more chance to see the end of this war. Sylvain knows he won’t; he’s one of Faerghus’s last generals, the country falls when he does. If he can spare the life of another who still has a chance, perhaps it will have been worth it.

When he dies, at least it will have been for the sake of someone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter [@euphemeas](https://twitter.com/euphemeas).


End file.
